French Connection
by cactusnell
Summary: Molly's going to Paris. But with whom? Sherlolly


John and Mary Watson were running into each other as they both puttered about the small kitchen of their flat attempting to put together an evening meal. John had baby Claire in one arm and a package of semi-frozen chicken in the other. Mary was bent over, trying to find other ingredients in the fridge. It was a typical scene of happy domesticity. And, much like all happily domesticated couples, the two were overly concerned about the love lives of their friends, in particular one Dr. Molly Hooper.

"Did you see Molly at the hospital today?" Mary asked her husband.

"Yeah. I've been meaning to talk to you about that. Have you noticed anything different about her?"

"Why? Is there something wrong?"

"Exactly the opposite, actually. She seems so...happy."

"And that concerns you because…"

"I guess I'm just dreading the drama sure to come. Molly meets a man. Molly is happy. Sherlock rips the man to shreds. Molly becomes unhappy. And mad! And everybody suffers the fallout. A prancing, smirking Sherlock. An unhappy, frustrated Molly. Life at St. Bart's becomes intolerable for a while. I'm just glad I don't live with the git anymore."

"You think Molly has a man? This will require further investigation. I'm gonna have to see what I can get out of her."

"I wouldn't count on getting anything out of her. Molly's smart enough to know that the longer she keeps this under wraps, the longer she keeps Sherlock off the scent. She hasn't told me anything, I can understand that. But if she hasn't told you anything, this must be really important to her. Maybe we should stay out of it!"

"You can't really mean that!"

"'Course not! I'm curious as all hell. I just don't want to be there if Sherlock finds out about it, then finds out that we knew about it…"

"Does it really matter who knew what first? You know Sherlock is bound to find out, and no matter who knew what and when they knew, life will be intolerable for an extended period of time." Mary then announced, "I'm going to call her after supper."

"Hey, Mary. Good to hear your voice," Molly answered the phone cheerily. John was right. Molly was happy.

"Same here. So, what's new…?"

"Nothing much. I've got a paper ready to be published…"

"Cut the chatter, Molls. Who's the guy?"

"Uh, what guy…?" Molly sounded the slightest bit evasive.

"Gotcha! Spill it!"

"This is because of John, right. He made a remark about me looking happy. I should have known. Your husband thinks he is turning into Sherlock bloody Holmes! He's trying to deduce me!" Molly sounded a bit ticked off, but then a note of panic entered her voice, "He hasn't mentioned anything to Sherlock, has he?"

"Relax. He barely said anything to me. He certainly doesn't want to say anything to the possessive five year old," Mary snorted her reply. "So tell me, who is he?"

"My lips are sealed…"

"Molly, come on. I won't tell anybody!"

"I'm not saying you would. I trust you with my life, not my love life! Just know that he's wonderful. He's gorgeous…"

"Prettier than Sherlock?"

"Same caliber. He's smart, funny, and I'm very happy. You're not going to get anything else out of me, so don't even try. I'll tell you everything when I'm ready. Please!"

Mary know that as soon as her friend said "Please", the cause was lost. "Well, are you still coming over on Friday night?"

"Of course, same as always. I'll bring the wine. You supply the food. Sherlock will provide the entertainment."

Just as Molly was preparing to leave her lab on Friday evening, a little later than usual due to a backlog of reports, she noticed a beautifully wrapped package laying on one of the lab tables. Reading the card, she smiled happily.

_An early birthday present for you (but I think I'll enjoy it more!)_

_Make sure you bring it to Paris!_

Molly opened the delicate wrappings to find an even more delicate nightgown and peignoir set in a beautiful shade of pale yellow. It was quite sheer, with lace covering only the most essential parts. She couldn't resist giggling. But she knew she couldn't take this to the Watson's flat. Too many questions. And far too many explanations! So she rewrapped the package, placing it in her desk drawer, and left to enjoy the evening with her friends.

Supper at John and Mary's passed without incident, with baby Claire, as usual being the center of attention. When she was finally put down for the evening, conversation on a more adult level ensued. Mary had been studying her friend all evening, and decided that John was, indeed, correct. Molly was happy. _ For now, at least,_ she thought as she stole a glance at the consulting detective sitting on an armchair across from her. Sherlock was studying his pathologist carefully, as if trying to read her. This was not unusual in itself, as he had a kind of habit of studying and deducing his friends and acquaintances, strangers on the street, employees at St. Bart's, delivery persons, tradesmen, baby daddies on crap telly shows, and the occasional stray dog! But he did seem particularly interested in Molly this evening.

"So Molly, unless I'm mistaken, which I seldom am, next weekend is your birthday. A rather significant one at that," Sherlock finally said.

Molly took a sip of her wine, refusing to meet his eyes. "I don't know that thirty-five is particularly significant, Sherlock."

"Certainly a significant milestone on the way to middle age!"

Mary rolled her eyes as John muttered, "Not good!" under his breath.

"Any plans…"

"Yes," Mary burst in to avoid any further upsetting comments, "Party! We should have a party. We've needed an excuse for a one for a long time!"

John, perhaps sensing a coming storm, switched from wine to Scotch.

"Sorry, but I have plans…"

"Surely not for the whole weekend. If you're busy on Saturday, we could do it on Friday. Or vice versa…"

"I'm going away for the entire weekend."

"Oh? Where?" Sherlock asked, perhaps too curiously.

"Paris, I think…"

"Ah, so it was your paramour who made the arrangements without consulting you. Rather high-handed of him, wouldn't you agree?"

Molly actually smiled at him, not at all intimidated. "I think it's very romantic. I've never been to Paris. And really, you git, who uses the term 'paramour' anymore?"

"It sounds better than 'boyfriend'. You know how I detest the term boyfriend!" He took a rather large swig of wine and continued, "Well, Dr. Hooper, when were you going to tell the Watson's about your current relationship?"

"As soon as I was sure it would last. That it was for real."

"I take it you're still not sure?"

"Of course I am. I was sure as soon as I found out we were going to Paris. And I received a lovely gift from him this afternoon, at the lab."

"Really? He was at St. Bart's?" John asked casually, thinking if he could question some co-worker he might be able to get a lead on the mysterious "paramour".

As if reading his best-friend's thoughts, Sherlock said, "Really, John. That won't work, you know. If it was a stranger, all you would have is a physical description, one that would fit any one of thousands of residents of the city of London. If it was someone who frequented the lab, his appearance would probably not have been noted. But not to worry! Molly's going to tell us." Then he turned his expectant gaze toward Molly.

"Not on your life. I'm rather enjoying the sneaking around. It makes me feel like a fallen woman…"

"It seems, but any accepted reasoning, you are a fallen woman, Molly…"

"Sherlock!", this came from both Watson's.

But he continued, "Taking off across the Channel for a weekend of illicit sex and debauchery…"

"God, I hope so!", Molly sipped her wine again.

They all, saving Sherlock, laughed at Molly's exclamation, and Mary lifted her glass to add, "We wish you the best, Molls. You deserve it!" Sherlock merely smirked.

After saying goodbye to their guest, Mary and John couldn't resist discussing the evening's revelations.

"She's really not going to tell us, is she?" Mary started.

"We could always ask Sherlock. I give it forty-eight hours before he has all the details," John snickered his reply.

On Monday morning when John went to the lab at St. Bart's he was not at all surprised to find Sherlock Holmes sitting in Molly's office, waiting for her to return from an errand.

"So, find out anything, Sherlock?"

"About what, John?"

"Molly's 'paramour'?" Molly was right. The word did seem rather funny coming out of his mouth.

"Oh, that. Well, aside from the fact that there is a rather lovely parcel containing even lovelier lingerie in the bottom drawer of her desk, nothing much. It's yellow, by the way. Her favorite color. She has not received any suspicious mobile calls. And she has taken to carrying her phone everywhere, being especially careful not to leave it unattended, so as to discourage snooping. There were no out of the ordinary visitations on Friday. And she seems to be smiling an awful lot."

"Sherlock, you're not going to do anything to ruin this for her, are you?"

"Why would I do that?"

"Because that's what you do, Sherlock!"

"I have merely been protecting her in the past, John. She has a history of picking the wrong men. Odds are she has once again chosen someone who is not good for her. But she seems so happy. Perhaps it is time I resign myself to the fact that she is an intelligent, grown woman who is capable of making her own decisions." With that statement, and much to John's surprise, Sherlock hoisted himself up from the chair and took his leave.

The rest of the week passed uneventfully. Mary stopped by the hospital and dragged Molly out for a girl's lunch, but was unsuccessful in dragging anything out of her. She would answer no questions about the mystery man, including how long she had been seeing him. But the smiles and the blushes caused by Mary's curiosity betrayed her happiness. John was equally unsuccessful getting a rise out of Sherlock. The detective seemed to be becoming more and more annoyed at John's concerns about his behavior. The more he objected, the more concerned John became.

"For god's sake, go home to your wife! I told you I'm not going to do anything to interfere with Molly's relationship. She's happy. She deserves to be happy, John, don't you agree?"

"You're alright with this?"

"Of course I am! Why wouldn't I be, John?"

"I'm not going to you there, you prat. Cheer up! Maybe they'll have a horrible weekend. Maybe it will rain!"

"Why, John, do you think that rain will interfere with room service to a romantic suite in the best hotel in Paris? Probably with a delightful view of the Champs Elysees? Filled with roses, John? Yellow roses?" As Sherlock was getting a bit testy, John decided that maybe it was time to leave.

Molly left for Paris on Friday afternoon, the day before her birthday. She phoned Mary to say good-bye, or "au revoir", to be precise, giggling in anticipation. By Saturday morning John had grown concerned enough to pay a visit to Baker Street. The least thing he could do was spend some time with his best friend, while that best friend's pathologist? friend? pet? who the hell knew? was debauching herself with a mystery man in the famous city of love. As he climbed the stairs he was mildly surprised not to hear the mournful sound of a violin. Sherlock usually took to the instrument in times of stress. No Sherlock in a fetal position on the couch. No Sherlock hiding under the duvet in the bedroom. No Sherlock drowned in the bathtub, thank god! He took out his mobile to text the detective.

I'M AT BAKER STREET. WHERE ARE YOU? - JW

PARIS. MOLLY LOOKED LOVELY IN YELLOW, BUT SINCE IT'S HER BIRTHDAY SHE'S CURRENTLY WEARING THE APPROPRIATE ATTIRE- SH

A PAPER HAT? - JW

HER BIRTHDAY SUIT, JOHN. PLEASE KEEP UP - SH

I HOPE IT RAINS - JW

SO DO I ! - SH

John walked back down the stairs grinning to himself. He finally knew something before Mary did, and he was going to feel very smug when he broke the news. Little did he know that Mary had already received the following text.

PLEASE ACT SURPRISED WHEN JOHN TELLS YOU! YOU KNOW HOW HE HATES IT WHEN YOU KNOW EVERYTHING BEFORE HE DOES - MH

WHAT'S IT WORTH TO YOU? - MW

YOU'LL BE THE FIRST TO SEE THE RING! - MH

DONE - MW


End file.
